You seen them damn painted horses?
Momma says a few days later.
She’s gone back to the old house,
a couple of times
looking through the things
we left behind
for that diary of
Lizzie’s.
What horses?
I say,
scrubbing out the kitchen sink
whilst Momma strums
her guitar.
She likes the trailer kept
neat
even when she makes
the messes.
Them damn things is
what Lizzie makes in his office,
Momma says.
Talks to him while
she glues that stuff together.
lines painted down the
sides of a palomino,
the eye decals glued on crooked.
I’m in the wrong business,
Momma says,
and she sets the guitar down
with a musical thump.
I should be working with crazies,
Momma says.
I could instruct someone
to put together a Model T.
A three-hundred-and-fifty
dollar plastic piece of crap.
We’d be living
high off the hog,
just like he does.
Then she is gone,
stomping from the room
and out the trailer.
I hear the car start
and roar away.
I see my hands shake.
Good grief
get ahold of yourself,
Hope,
I think.
I hurry myself along.
I sweep,
wipe down the fridge,
damp mop the floor,
then dust Momma’s little
collection of salt and pepper
shakers.
The whole time I work
I bite at my bottom lip
until
it bleeds.
Then I move out of the
kitchen in slow motion
out the door
away from here.
might, my feet not
even making a sound.
Maybe not even touching
the ground
I’m so quiet.
I walk,
checking every once in a while,
over my shoulder.